


Broken

by Bibliomania



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-24 17:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15635511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliomania/pseuds/Bibliomania
Summary: It was in a single moment, the very instant his naive hatchling of a brother made contact with this human, this utter filth, that the Night Fury's last shard of hope cracked.Cracked, but not yet broken.





	1. Broken Souls

Night Furies, for all their notoriety in stories passed in hushed tones on dark, moonless nights, were rarely a bother to anyone. Dragons, humans, or anything between. Stories of elusive killers, pitch-black demons blending into darkness with skill rivaling shadows themselves engraved themselves in nightmares the world over. The truth, however, was much more…mundane.

Night Furies – or perhaps Diablo Oscuro, Shadoudoragon, or any one of the thousands of names bestowed around the world – were solitary by nature. Nomadic even. The odds that a Night Fury would bother interfering in the lives of another creature was comparable to lightning striking the shortest tree in the forest. Which then exploded into a statue of Thor. Running with a ridiculous grin. Holding a salmon aloof. Chased by an angry mother bear – the point being that it doesn’t happen

Stories of a Night Fury kidnapping princesses in the Far East? Fake.

A Night Fury laying waste an island country even further east? Not a chance.

Packs of Night Furies harassing ship convoys? Why would they even care?

A lone Night Fury Laying claim to a castle and subjugating all in the village below? …Nooooo, well, it wasn’t a Night Fury. Some other dragon…perhaps.

While other dragons felt the need to hoard, be it territory, jewels, or resources, Night Furies were minimalists content to living solitary lives. Once mated, a pair would together, forever if they could. And, if a hatchling was conceived, it will travel alongside them, first riding on its father’s back – an intimate gesture reserved exclusively for hatchlings.

In fact, the only time Night Furies might stop moving is in the later weeks of the year, and even then the occasion is rare. The mated couple will fly north, far past the point when snow forever blankets the ground below, to the land where night holds for months at a time. This is the safest time and place for Night Furies. The darkness kept them hidden, invisible among the hills of snow and only ever revealed by the rare ray of moonlight. Though the cold would make any other dragon hesitate, the inner fire of a night fury could grow far hotter, burning in the chest with a purple flame so intense that, should one focus in ever so close, they could see the light peeking out between ebony scales.

It was the safest place for a Night Fury, and thus the perfect place to lay an egg.

In this world of darkness, a wasteland for many and sanctuary to few, a small family of Night Furies dwelled. Near the peak of a mountain, almost hidden by the blizzard outside, was a solitary cave. The entrance invisible if not for a steady stream of smoke, for within was a tower of flames, built high by a pyre of the land’s scarce foliage. Beside was sprawling mess of black scales and limbs, rolling this way and that to catch the heat of the fire.

“Mother,” asked the pile of purring dragon, “do you suppose Father will return soon?"

Silence was his mother’s reply, for her time was occupied curled around and sliding her tongue over the smooth, light grey shell of her egg.

The young Night Fury, who had hatched from his own egg not four winters prior, shifted closer to the fire. He shifted to his side, his tummy – whose inner fire was a bit too dim to provide a satisfying warmth – kept toasty by the radiating heat.

“Mother,” he inquired, “might I go find him?” Despite the Night Fury’s youth, his growth was remarkable. From tail to nose tip, his length was a hair over a third of his father’s, a feat unheard of until at least the seventh winter. Though even more miraculous was his flight. While admittedly a bit shaky and unreliable in high winds, the prideful dragon could support himself completely mid-flight, much to his father’s pride and mother’s apprehension.

However, if the howls echoing through the chamber leading outside were any indication, the blizzard outside had no lack of swift winds.

“I will not allow it,” the mother answered, aware of her son’s resulting ire. He was still a child; no child wanted to be told “no.”

The son made to stand but paused when his mother tensed. Raising herself slightly up, though never releasing her egg, her gaze was locked onto her son. She would stop him should he try to leave. “The blizzard is too fierce. You would lose yourself the instant your feet left the ground.”

“But if father himself is lost-”

“Then you disappearance would add to his misfortune,” she insisted. “Your fire is weak; your father’s is strong. The wind alone would freeze you; he could be buried and only a chill to show for it.” She settled back down, resuming her egg’s cleaning. “Patience, little one. He will come.”

The young dragon glanced to the exit, back to his mother, back to the exit, and to his mother once more. Grumbling, he settled down as well, head tucked between idle paws. “Wouldn’t know unless I try,” he mumbled into his forearm. “I could make it through.”

“We’ll know you can fly or we’ll know you can die,” the mother stated, not pausing in the least. “I’d rather not force an answer.”

Her son was not satisfied with that answer. He rolled over onto his back, opening his wings before him, perpendicular to his flanks as to allow the tips to dangle above. Pawing at his wingtips was his way of staving off boredom, though only for a moment. Tired already, both wings fell against the stone floor with a soft smack. “Then how do I entertain myself until his return?”

She gave the egg a final swipe, then paused. “I could tell you a story. If you like.”

The young night fury chortled, batting at a wingtip as it swayed back and forth. “Oh please. There is not a single story in your head that hasn’t already taken root in mine.”

Indeed, what the bored dragon truly wanted was his father to appear through the entrance, preferably dragging something juicy and fat.

“Is that a challenge?” The mother inquired.

“No,” he said, “it’s a fact.”

She huffed, egg cleaning on an apparent hold as she stared down her son.

“Once there was a human hatchling settled on her own patch of shore-“

“With a coat of seal skin and nothing more,” her son interrupted. “But with this coat of which she wore, the true flesh of a seal came before. But if this coat should leave her hand, in marriage should her hand be had.” 

He caught hold of a wingtip and rolled it between his paws. “It’s not an exciting story.”

“Absurd! I was there you know, watching from the bluffs as that lowlife tore off her second skin. Had you seen her despair, your tears would last until your tenth winter.”

“No, I’m not talking about the plot,” the young night fury corrected. “I’m talking about the magic. All of your stories end with magic.” He relaxed his wings, flopping against the stone. “Want a hatchling? Magic. Settle a debt? Magic. It’s always magic, magic, magic.” He paused. “Such a cheat. We can’t use magic – we use our heads. We use our teeth or our claws or our fire. Is it so wrong to solve your own damn problems, using your own skill, over the power of convenient witchcraft?”

“Oh, little one,” the mother crooned, carefully unraveling herself from her egg so she could saunter over to her son and nuzzle his warm tummy. “Don’t be jealous now. Even if we cannot produce magic, it doesn’t mean we cannot make use of it. Haven’t I told you the story of Lumiere and the Island? The Golden Nadder? Haven’t I told you of doppelgängers, leprechaun gold, or fairy wings?”

Outside the blizzard grew fiercer, the wind echoing throughout the chamber and forcing the fire into a frenzied dance. The father had been gone from quite some time, braving the cold on his lonesome. Perhaps, the young night fury hoped, it meant, at this moment, his father was dragging a massive bear up the side of the mountain. The local variety, the ones with pure white fur before it was matted with blood, were his favorite.

The doppelgänger story struck his interest. “Actually, I don’t know if you’re doppelgänger story is accurate.”  
“Really?” She asked. “How so?”

“You told me doppelgängers were a bad thing, but the zippleback you and father left me with told a different story.”  
It had been over a month prior when the family of three had been steadily making their way north, the parents with a plan and their child simply happy to be allowed to fly on his own (though he would never admit to the occasional break on his father’s back). The days melted into weeks as they passed over jagged, sharp peaks, oceans free of ice, and foliage not covered in a fine layer of powdery white.

While some night furies prepared to be … spontaneous with their breeding, the young dragon’s mother preferred to leave little to chance. One morning, as the orange rays of the rising sun shine over the waver below, they had arrived at an island, not unlike any of the others passed the night before – A tall jagged spire erupting from the ocean, the rocks below worn smooth by the tide and the spire sharpened by the wind. 

A quarter of the way from the top was a sunken in cave, grey as the surrounding stone, unmolested if not for the brightly colored zippleback dozing over the edge.

The young dragon had expected his parents to fly on but was surprised to see them descend. His mother in slow, graceful circles, his father all but diving into the colorful dragon. 

His father, often more childish than his own hatchling, had opened his wings mere meters from impact, landing on the zippleback and waking him into a panic. Greetings were enthusiastically screamed twice, once into either head, and were returned in an instant.

Twice.

With teeth.

Once in the ear and another in the nose.

His father hadn’t stopped chuckling even after proper introductions were made.

The zippleback was an old friend, one who had met his father a mere week after its hatching. It was a short, but interesting tale – one involving a zippleback waking from an afternoon nap only to be faced snout to snout (to snout) with an overly ambitious hatchling night fury who refused to leave until a proper game was played.

The zippleback, relaxing back into his cave, had told the story with annoyance. His father insisted it was far more exciting, including his excitement as they burned down a forest and chewed on timberjack tails.

And then the young night fury was left with the zippleback while his parents flew off on their mating flight.

The young night fury, who had coincidentally never seen a dragon with two heads, asked about its peculiar body.

And so the zippleback had woven him a tale, one that, after his parents returned a few days later, the young night fury had close to forgotten.

“You told me doppelgängers were bad,” the young night fury said to his mother. “You said seeing one meant something bad was coming.”

She returned to her egg, holding it between her paws. “Well, what is said to happen varies from place to place,” she admitted, “but the general theme was that misfortune befalls those who meet their double.”

The young night fury, how had long since grown bored with his fiddling, rolled back over to his tummy and inched slightly closer to the fire. “That’s not what the zippleback said.”

“Oh?” she asked, perhaps feeling a bit challenged. “Then, pray tell, what did the zippleback say?”

He crinkled his eyes, then passed his tongue back and forth across unsheathed teeth. His mother did not like being wrong, his father could attest to that, but the young night fury ultimately decided he was a bit too bored to care. He would almost certainly come to regret his decision, but he was too bored for consequences either.

“Ok, so the zippleback said that before we are hatched, souls are created before the body. So it goes soul, then body, then soul into body, then hatching.”

The mother nodded, interested for the moment, urging him to continue.

“But sometimes, when souls are made, they become, um, cracked is the right word? The zippleback said ‘fractured,’ but I think my word works better.”

“It’s alright, little one. Stories are bound to change a word or two with every telling. Eventually, they become new stories.”

The young night fury nodded. “So souls are shaped like a ball and transparent, like the domes of two of dad’s favorite jellyfish mushed together.” He knew the shape of those light-blue jellyfish too well – his father insisted a detour to snack on a few as it was spawning season. Personally, he didn’t like them and neither did his mother: they stick to teeth and sting tongues.

“Zippleback souls only breaks halfway down the middle, so you have two individual and distinct parts in one body. Snaptrappers break into four parts, but are connected in the middle like a clover, so you have four of them in one body.”

“Okay,” she scratched at the scales above her brow. “But what if a zippleback soul doesn’t fracture? Is the zippleback born with one head?”

“Oh, sorry,” the young night fury fumbled. “There is no such thing as a zippleback soul, souls don’t – I mean…” he paused, “give me a minute.” Trotting away from the warm glow of the fire, he approached the cold, breezy exit where the wind had left a healthy deposit of powdery snow.

He reared up and stomped on the snow, compressing it again and again until a sturdy slate replaced the feeble flakes. Satisfied it wouldn’t fall apart, he broke off the slab and scooted it over to his mother, then returned to the exit, collected half a dozen loose rocks between his jaws, and brought them over as well.

He settled beside her, scooting his rear and tail as close to the fire as possible. “Okay, so this,” he broke off a small chunk of snow and rolled it into a ball, “is a soul. This,” he scooted a single pebble away from the rest, “is a body. Do you understand?”

She rolled her eyes. “Your symbolism befuddles me.”

The young night fury skewered the snow with a single claw tip – not nearly as sharp as either parent’s – and waved it back and forth overhead as though it was flying through the air, not dissimilar to the falling flakes it use to be.

“So first the soul forms by itself up in the sky, just a little speck to begin with, then grows like hail in a thundercloud.” He hovered the chunk above the lone pebble, “Then the soul finds a body, a random body, about to be hatched.” 

The next motion, the mother noted, was not dissimilar to how her son liked to swat at flies. He mashed the snow down with such force she worried he might break a claw, then squished and rolled the snow and pebble together until they were no longer separate masses. “Finally, they unite into a complete person.”

The mother nodded. “Interesting. But what of the fracturing? What do you mean by that?”

Tossing the first prop to the side, another rock and snow chunk quickly replaced it. Again, he rolled the snow into a ball (as well as he could without dexterous fingers), skewered it on a claw, then carefully scraped out the center until it formed a smooth crescent, not unlike the moon currently hidden by rock, snow, and clouds.

“Now imagine this rock,” he gestured towards the pebble, “is a zippleback body. Zipplebacks have two heads, but one body, so they need a single soul with two distinct parts,” this was accented by a jab to either point of the crescent. “Two souls could never fit in a single body.”

Some dragons, according to the zippleback, argued those who hear voices in their heads possessed extra souls, but those dragons were idiotic Terrible Terrors who spit as much sense from their tail-holes as their mouths. 

According to the zippleback.

The mother considered it, though her gaze and rocking head betrayed skepticism. “I’d be careful not to put much faith in his stories,” she said, though, through her son’s eyes, it translated to ‘my stories about souls are better.’ “But what does this have to do with doppelgängers?”

Indeed the conclusion of the zippleback’s story, one which involved doppelgängers and broken souls was…unnerving, to say the least. It was not as though the young night fury was plagued by fear, but he had lied awake in the zippleback’s cave, long after being ordered to sleep, anxiously contemplating if his soul was a broken shard of a whole, and what that imply if it was.

He broke off a final chunk of snow, rolled it into a ball, and collected two stones rather than one.

Holding the snow chunk aloft in a single paw, he said, “Sometimes you have a soul that starts out complete – there’s nothing wrong with it. But then,” he jabbed it and twisted, splitting it messily down the middle, “the soul breaks in two. Sometimes they reform, but often they continue as though they were two independent souls from the start. The find two different bodies, they become two different people. Similar, but different.”

“So that’s a doppelgänger,” his mother concluded. “Two people with half of one soul.”

“That’s what the zippleback said,” the young night fury confirmed, briefly struggling to flick and scrape the snow from his claws before giving up, ambling over to the blaze, and sticking in the offending paw. It was a trick he learned from his father – if you don’t like something stuck to you, burn it. Of course, in his father’s case, it was a jellyfish with stubborn tentacles which managed to worm between his scales, but the lesson was still valid.

Speaking of his father, he must have been dragging a small whale across the snow, because, if not, his starving son would spit in his nostril while he slept.

The mother watched her son settle beside the fire, grooming her egg for perhaps the millionth time since it was laid. “And if the doppelgängers were to meet? What happens then?”

“I’m not sure,” her son yawned. “He said things like ‘harmonize’ and ‘reconvene,’ but I think he just didn’t know.”

“Hm, then I suppose my version remains the most accurate,” she mused.

The young night fury, who knew better than to bite that dangling tail despite his boredom, responded, “So it is.” 

Quickly the young night fury’s fight with boredom evolved into a fight with sleep, his eyelids refused to bear the fire’s light any longer. Once again he sprawled out, basking in the warmth, dreaming of howling winter winds and fatty meat.


	2. Broken Mind

When the young night fury had closed his eyes, it was to a roaring blaze. Now, as he cracked open a single eye, it was to the faint, ruby glow of cooling charcoal.

And a roar. He woke to his father’s roar.

In the moment it had taken for the young night fury to have his wits about him, his mother was already by the entrance. Her ears flicked and swiveled, then stood high when another roar echoed through the cave.

“Hunters!” his father roared.

The young night fury bolted for the entrance. “Father!” he screeched back, intent on slaughtering whatever lurked outside their cave.

He would have too, had his mother not reared around and locked her jaws around his middle. “No! Mother!” He screeched, claws scraping and gouging the stone below. “Father!”

Despite his impressive size for a youngling, he was still only a youngling.  The mother’s strong neck lifted him with ease, each of his four claws left scrambling at air. Then, in a single, fluid motion, she flung him across the cave.

He landed on his back, legs flailing with the struggle to right himself. He did not stop. Not for an instant. Even when his mother’s paw pressed down on his chest he kept moving. Flailing. His mind was oblivious to all in his struggles, even the flailing claws that scraped her hide.

“Quiet,” she ordered, though he didn’t listen. “Quiet!” she pressed near all her weight on her single paw. Her son gasped and choked as the air forced its way from his lungs. Yet still, he did not stop.

She leaned down, head beside his ear as she spoke, forcing authority behind every word. “You are young. You are inexperienced. We know not what lies outside this cave.”

“Hu-hunter,” he wheezed, batting against her leg. “Fa-Father, out there.”

“And number?” she questioned, voice low. Every moment she spent on her son was another her mate fought alone. “Position, skill, ability, weapons, enchantment? What do we truly know? You will die as you are.”

The batting slowed but did not stop. The mother did not want to force him, she did not want her son to suffer, no mother did, but time was short.

She reared back, then stomped down on his throat.

He choked. A sick, hoarse sound echoed again and again as he fought for breath. She let up her weight, the pressure finally alleviated from his throat, then rolled him to his stomach. He fought to rise, a single paw pressed to his throat. “I…strong,” he defended, the pain behind each syllable bringing shame to his mother. “We…strong. You… you and … and I … We could-”

“No!” the strength, the fury in her voice killing his words. “Your father and I, we can die. We can die and nothing would be wrong in this world. You cannot!”

The mother, who had lived to see the world’s darker nature, was certain of only two things. One – caution was never unwarranted. Outside the cave, concealed by the winds of the blizzard, could be a party of foolish humans either bold or stupid enough to face a family of dragons; a dragon’s domain is a den of death for outsiders. On the other paw, it might be drove of experienced, confident dragon hunter, ones sharpened by hundreds of kills. Such hunters would know to corner prey before the killing blow.

Caution demanded she treat it as the latter.

Two – hatchlings die last. Hatchlings should never die. She would never allow her young to come close to death, not while she herself breathed.

Both were silent, the young night fury’s form shaking, his eyes quivering as the two locked gazed. Slowly, gently, the mother nuzzled her son, brushing past his ears and over his forehead to the tip of his warm nose. “But you, you and your sibling, your death would be the greatest suffering, too great for either of us to bear.”

Night Furies were unable to cry. Unlike humans, it wasn’t something they were built to do. But, if they could, the mother was certain moisture pooled under her dear son’s eyes. “I don’t –” he stumbled, “I wanna- you can’t.”

“It is alright,” she soothed, licking him on his forehead as though he were still a hatchling. “I promise it will be alright.”

Her son hiccupped, struggling to keep his mind clear. “Promise?”

“I do,” she nuzzled him one final time. Then, without warning, she reared around, a purple glow pooling between her teeth as she charged a shot, then fired. The rock exploded outward, everything from boulders to pebbles showered the cave. Her egg, however, was intentionally overshadowed by her body.

But she was not finished. Again and again, she fired into the cave walls, blasting randomly, transforming the cave into a cavern of hollows and rubble. Finally, she chose a single crater, one almost level with the cave floor. She fired once more into the hollow. Then once more, again and again until it was sufficiently deep.

“Take the egg. Get inside.” She ordered.

Her son scurried to obey, gripping the egg with sheathed teeth, then backed into and fit himself in the hollow. It was too small to move around, let alone open and close his wings, but he managed to wedge himself in and hold the egg between his two paws.

“Watch your head,” then she blasted the rock above hollow, burring the entrance and hiding her hatchlings with rubble. Quickly, knowing her mate was waiting, she inspected the pile. “Can you breathe?”

“Yes,” her son replied from beneath the rubble, hoarse voice spurring a silent apology from his mother. “Help father!”

Sparing one final glance for her children, the mother raced out the cave and into the blizzard beyond.

**********************

All the young night fury’s life, there was sound. Most recently, it was the sound of howling winds and crackling fire, but his repertoire of sounds stretched far beyond.

He has listened to the sea from a sandy shore, the breaking of waves as they fell in on themselves off the coast, the bubbles and trickles of water that rubbed back and forth against the sand.

He bore witness to the melodies of the jungle, as every animal cried out in squeaks and chirps and beats and cries. It was as though each was singing their own score, competing with one another to create the most wonderful symphony imaginable.

He stood in silence among endless plains, nothing but the stars in the sky and the long grass below, hearing the beat of grasshoppers ring over and over in a feverish, yet gentle rhythm.

But his favorite sounds were collected stealthily, often from the cover of foliage or darkness, and always without a single note contributed himself. His favorite sounds were those created from human ingenuity, from the strings and skins and woods and everything else bound together into a grotesque form. But when they set about stroking, pounding, and plowing air through those form, the young night fury would quiver and melt.

The soothing, pacifying ring of a harp.

The exciting, trembling beat of a drum.

The mournful, humbling whispers of a harp.

The young night fury could remember all of them.

Now he heard nothing. Now was absolute silence, baring his own haggard breathing. It made him sick, bile rising from his empty stomach, which, in turn, made it harder to breathe. The walls were closing in, he swore it. Suffocating, crushing, strangling him from the outside while he drowned within.

They wouldn’t come, his parents. There was nothing outside anymore, just rocks and darkness. Rocks and darkness and undefined edges and cold slabs and nothing else. His breathing turned feverish, faster and faster until his throat seared and his chest clenched like a vice.

He wanted his mother. His father. The egg in his clutches, precious it may be, offered no comfort. An egg cannot mumble reassurances in your ear, it couldn’t swaddle you in wings and tails and wayward limbs. No dragon had ever felt better with the presence of an egg.

As the moments tore holes in the young night fury’s brain, as the rocks offered no comfort, he made a promise. If he could be with his parents again, doze on his father’s back, watch as his mother captivated herself in her stories, share in their warmth, he’d readily sacrifice his hearing. Every last sound, every single note.

All for them.

A crack rang through the cave – the young night fury flinched and cowered, holding his breath despite a burning throat. The sound repeated three times, each time fainter than the preceding until it stopped by the far wall, then silence.

He pressed an ear to the rocks, carefully listening for any other noise. He was rewarded in the nest instant when a cascade of cracks echoed through the cave like rainfall followed by a heavy thump.

It was rocks, the young night fury realized. From the mouth of the cave, part of the many piles his mother had created through her explosions. His body hummed with excitement, who would be immature enough to kick over a pile of rocks?

Father, of course!

Careful of the egg by his side, the young night fury scooted a wing through the cramped space to shield its delicate shell. Then, rearing a paw, he shoved against the-

“Dammit, Oleg! You damned fool!”

The young night fury scrabbled back into the crater, pressed into the furthest crevice until he could fit no further. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. “N-No, it…it can’t.”

“Sir, the beast,” a man, a human sobbed. “My son, he was a boy. A child! You told us the beast-”

“I told you the village would eat this winter,” another man spat back. “Never said there wouldn’t be fewer mouths to feed.”

“You monster!” the other man, Oleg, cried. “What chief sends his own to die? What honest man lives the way you do?”

The young night fury flinched as a solid smack rang through the cave. “You think life fair, Oleg? You think the land be kind?” he accused. “What’s fair about the beasts coming to our land, feasting on our game, when our own people starve in the snow? Huh? What fairness is that?”

“There were other ways,” Oleg cried. “Seals, polar bears, fish, and we march up this mountain to our doom? To my son’s death? To the death of 12 from a party of 20? You’re mad!”

Another rock pile crashed in the cave, the subject of the chief’s anger. “And in the future? These beast would have devoured the game, pillaged our stores, and ravaged the land until the last of us die out!” Another pile crashed. “Is that what you wanted? For Rurik to die starved and alone? That is no way for a man to go.”

 _Food?_ The young night fury thought. _They…they killed…mother…father…because we ate?_

Oleg sobbed, the sound muffled through the rock. “Rurik. Sweet, gentle Rurik.”

Father. Sweet, silly, adventurous, humorous, cheerful, relaxed, uninhibited, light-hearted Father.

“He was all I had left, all that remained of my blessed wife.”

Mother. Blessed, clever, insightful, caring, earnest, captivating, gentle, sympathetic, warm-hearted Mother.

“Oleg! Yuri!” called a third voice, just outside the cave among the wind. “The dead are strapped to the sleds. We need to move!”

A moment later, the men inside the cave disappeared into the blizzard outside, their footfalls becoming one with the wind. Once again, silence held the cave. Not the crackle of fire, not the fond words traded between family, and not the brush of scales as two parents wrapped around their children.

And in the cave, behind a wall of rock, cowered a young night fury, eyes opened wide, yet seeing nothing.

Hearing nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first thing's first, sorry to Crystal_Hearted. I planned on having the parents die when I first imagined this story, which would serve as a driver for the rest of the plot.  
> Second, sorry if the quality of this chapter is worse than the first. Usually when I write I do it on note pad first and then move it over to digital so I have to reread and look over every line, but with this one I just did it online and did not look at it again. I'm not very good at evaluating my own work, so if it was worse PLEASE TELL ME!!!  
> Other than that, college is starting up again next week, so I'll be facing that fun adventure. Hope you guys are having fun too. Have a good week :)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so first work and all. It's gonna be a ride, I'll tell you what, but the normal disclaimers still apply.  
> I don't own How to Train Your Dragon. I don't make money from this. I don't - look, let's just assume that this story is just a fun and interesting to avoid real life for a while.  
> Also, I'll try to add tags when stuff appears in the story, but not before. I absolutely loathe when people add tags that are nowhere to be seen in the story.  
> Other than that, have fun. Read. Review. Tell me what I do wrong. Tell me what I do right. And I'll try to get back on as many as a can before life drags me back kicking and screaming.


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